Idol Hands
by Spider from Mars
Summary: Bye Bye Birdie - Conrad Birdie isn't all that great close up.


Author's Note: I was in a production of this show that ended on Sunday (it was such fun!), and fanfiction ideas kept brewing in my head. The idea of writing this off-the-wall pairing popped into my head and I thought it would be a fun challange to try and write a Rosie/Birdie fanfic keeping them in character. I hope I succeeded! This is set a few years before the show, and Albert is thirty-one.

Disclaimer: The characters Rose Alvarez, Albert Peterson, Mae Peterson, and Conrad Birdie don't belong to me, not does the show Bye Bye Birdie. This is just for fun, there is no profit being made.

**Idol Hands**

Conrad Birdie isn't all that great close up.

He stinks of beer and hair grease, and more often than not of women's perfume. He's always got a cigarette between his lips, even when the press is around, and Rosie always has to snatch it from his grasp and hope no reporters noticed. They always do. Somehow, none of Conrad's shrieking fangirls seem to really care, though- it just encourages them to start hacking down the things themselves. Conrad Birdie, Rosie thinks, is the best advertisement cigarettes ever got.

That's another unattractive thing about Conrad Birdie, his fangirls. Everywhere they go, thirteen year olds in clownish makeup shriek "We love you Conrad, oh yes we do..." and ask him to sign their arms. He indulges them with a wink or a signature, and sometimes does a bit more than that, to Rosie's disgust. The public varies between two extremes: those screaming fans and the press. After dealing with either of them, Rosie needs to pop down a few aspirin. Albert needs some too, but "not so much, Rosie, break it in half!" Then Rosie needs another.

Albert was so thrilled when they found Conrad. Rosie knew that adopting some messed up, drugged out kid from a reform school was asking for a world of trouble, but Conrad Birdie was worth it, for Almaelou anyway. Not for Rosie. Not unless Albert can ever bring himself to use all the money Birdie made to dissolve the business and go back to college. He told her he would again, last night. Yeah, right. In a few days, Mae will show up, and all thoughts of teaching English will be forgotten.

Rosie needs a drink, and all she can find is that damn cheap beer that Conrad Birdie drinks like it was water and he was a fish. Fuck it. She pops open a can and takes a long sip, grimacing. The stuff is vile. It reminds her too much of Conrad Birdie and his horrible smell, and the way girls scream when he twists his hips. She can't decide who she'd rather think about, Mae Peterson or Conrad Birdie. If only she could just stick them both on a train and then she and Albert...she doesn't want to think about Albert. Albert's in the next room, writing a new hit for Conrad. Honestly Sincere. She snorts. That's something Albert has a _whole_ lot of experience being.

She decides she'd rather think about Conrad, and takes another swig of the beer. Conrad Birdie, she thinks, is the reason Albert is still in show business. If they hadn't found him in that school, if they hadn't heard that greasy kid sing, Albert wouldn't have a national star to tie him down. Rosie never wanted to be attached to an idol. She didn't want all the damn headache. All Rosie wants is a quiet life as Mrs. Phi Beta Cappa Peterson.

"Is that so much to ask for?" she asks the empty room.

Idols are always such a disappointment close up. Of course, Conrad Birdie could never disappoint Rosie because she knew him from the start. She wishes those fangirls could have a day as Conrad Birdie's manager. Wishes they could see him whine and drink and have sex with fifteen year olds in abandoned barns. Then she sort of wishes she could be someone else, and not know Conrad, and just see him singing and winking and twisting his hips. She wishes she could see what there is to be disappointed about.

Rosie's finished the beer, which doesn't taste quite so bad anymore, but since she's still hardly tipsy, she decides to open up another. If Conrad Birdie complains, she'll leave him all alone to talk to the reporters next time. That'd be a laugh. Of course, Albert would step in and do all the talking, and then afterward he'd look frazzled and ask where she was and she'd feel awful. Goddamn Albert.

Rosie's almost done with the second can, and trying to decide if she needs a third, because she's still thinking about Albert Peterson and his _mother_, when Conrad walks into the room. He looks at the can in her hand, looks at the empty one next to her, and snorts. Then he grabs another can and chugs down half of it. Rosie wrinkles her nose in disgust. Conrad Birdie is sensual and almost delicate onstage, but when he's alone he's not delicate at all.

Now he seems to think they're going to drink together. Rosie doesn't see why he'd want to, he seems perpetually frustrated with the man and woman who made him a national sensation, but she doesn't really care either way. She sniffs. The stink that came in with Conrad Birdie has perfume mixed in with the grease and cigarette smokes. Well, that figures. What does Conrad Birdie _do_ when he goes out except pick up young chicks?

"Hey. You crying over Albert again?" This is Conrad Birdie's version of sympathy. Ooh, she hates him. She didn't actually know she hated him that much until just now, but it's all been building up all night. Ever since Albert sat down to write that stupid song. You've gotta be sincere...yeah...yeah...

"I'm not crying," she says stiffly. Rosie doesn't want to get into a conversation about Albert with Conrad Birdie, because Conrad Birdie isn't the sort of person you have deep personal conversations with, so she changes the subject. "Did Albert tell you he's writing you a new song?"

"Yeah." Conrad rolls his eyes. "Honestly Sincere."

Rosie can't help but smile. She hates Conrad Birdie, but she hates him a little less when he rolls his eyes at the stupid songs Albert writes for him. It doesn't matter what Conrad Birdie sings. He could sing the alphabet and girls would faint. Rosie finds that the most unattractive of all. They'll never, ever be rid of this kid, and Almaelou will never be dissolves, and Rosie will never be Mrs. Peterson. She finishes the beer and chucks the can at the wall.

"Hey, Rosie..."

Rosie doesn't really care what Conrad Birdie has to say. She buries her face in her hands, physically restraining herself from marching into the next room and telling Albert that she is _through_ at Almaelou, and if he wants to stay, that's just fine with her but she's not waiting any longer. She has to restrain herself, because she's not totally drunk, and she knows she isn't going to leave Almaelou.

She hears footsteps and looks up in confusion. Conrad Birdie isn't sitting on the other side of the desk and for a moment, Rosie is puzzled as to where he went. Her brain is whirring a little bit. Maybe, she decides, she should go make sure that he's not going out again, because Conrad has a song to learn tomorrow, and so help her, he will be awake before noon to learn it. Yes, that's what she'll do. She stands, surprisingly unsteady on her feet, and wobbles.

Two hands catch her behind her waist and hold her firmly. The scent of beer and smoke and grease is beating down upon her now. Rosie looks up and opens her mouth to thank Conrad for catching her, but before she gets any words out she sees the expression on his face. His sunglasses are off and he's looking at her like he expecting her to swoon in his arms like those girls who scream when he comes on T.V. He's giving her that _look_ that he has sometimes, that cues her or Albert to drag him away from whatever piece of jailbait he's pressed up against before things get really out of hand. Rosie hates that look, and she hates that it's being aimed at her, and that he expects her to fall for it.

But Rosie's drunk, and angry at Albert, and at everything else, and she does fall for the look, a little bit. He leans in to kiss her and she lets him, wrapping her hands around his neck. The kiss is nothing like those between her and Albert. Albert is tender, and sweet, and tentative, almost afraid he'll break her if he kisses too hard. Conrad can't kiss hard enough. His whole body is hard, and radiates beer, and sweat, and heat, and that indefinable _something_ that comes out when he steps onto the stage, that something that makes women faint and girls squeal, and that is making Albert very rich, and very not an English teacher.

The hair she buries her fingers in is different too, greasy from sweat and hair product. Albert's hair is soft and blond, like a child's hair. She moves her fingers down to his rough, stubbly jawline. Albert is always clean shaven. Conrad shaves when he feels like it, or when Rosie shoves him into the bathroom and tells him that so help her he is going to look nice for this show. She hasn't bothered in a while, and it shows.

Cold hits her suddenly, then a dizzy, disoriented feeling. There's no body against her. There aren't any hands on her back. Still unbalanced, she topples into the chair behind her. Conrad Birdie gives her one of those _nods_, those little nods he gives to the girls who stare and sigh at him, those smug nods she hates so incredibly much, and then clumps off to his bedroom, leaving the stink of sweat and perfume.

Rosie puts a hand to her head and stares at the place where Conrad Birdie was just standing. She fell for it. All of it. She shakes her head, disgusted with herself. Conrad Birdie? Really, Rosie? You can do better than that greasy bongo-playing kid. Even Albert, a thirty-one year old still in the iron grip of his Mamma, is light-years ahead of...ugh! Conrad Birdie.

After some contemplation, she decides she'd better have another beer. She wants to forget this ever happened, and the best way to do that is probably to get absolutely shit-faced drunk. Of course, the smell of that awful beer just reminds her of Conrad, and the overwhelming stink of him when he got too close, and the way he felt pressed up against her...

Rosie hates Conrad Birdie more than she ever has before.


End file.
